


Frying Pan into the Fire (or: No Man is an Island but Crowley Sure Looks Good on a Kitchen One)

by maddiemaynot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Eskimo Kisses, M/M, blowjob, crowley is a soft idiot, i'm writing these tags at 3am and I'm a tag ranter, kitchen island sex, no actual penetration of anything, nose rubs, so sorry for that, unless you count Aziraphale's mouth, which probably does count
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-13 15:42:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21160634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddiemaynot/pseuds/maddiemaynot
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have taken to saying goodbye to each other with nose rubs and things progress - rather rapidly - from there.(Beta-ed by the wonderful definitelynotcharlea)





	Frying Pan into the Fire (or: No Man is an Island but Crowley Sure Looks Good on a Kitchen One)

They’ve taken to saying goodbye to one another with nose rubs - eskimo kisses, they were called once but Crowley’s not sure if that’s the politically correct term anymore. Either way they’re acceptable, they think. Not quite a kiss, but a way of showing affection. 

Each one drives Crowley wild.

One evening in particular, standing outside the bookshop as Crowley prepares to get in the Bentley and drive home, they say their goodbyes. Crowley dips his face down and Aziraphale raises his. Their faces touch and it’s so close to a kiss, Crowley is centimetres away from the angel’s lips. He can feel Aziraphale's breath landing on his jaw.

He can’t take it. He grabs the back of Aziraphale’s head, winding his fingers into the angel's hair. This is it. The make or break moment. He alters the angle of his head, tilting his face further and presses his lips firmly to Aziraphale’s. He feels the angel stiffen slightly under his touch and then relax. 

They kiss for an age, it feels. Lips parting slightly and relaxing into one another’s mouths. Aziraphale's hands wind their way up inside Crowley's jacket, clasped together and resting on the demon's back. Crowley had fully intended to drive home that night, but somewhere between first deciding to kiss Aziraphale and actually meeting his lips – in the infinite space between the milliseconds – that intention changed. He turns them, never breaking the kiss, and walks himself backwards, back through the bookshop front door. He kicks it closed behind him and Aziraphale pulls away for a moment.

"Crowley, do be careful, that door is over two hundr-"

Crowley cuts the angel's scolding off with another kiss, fiercer and more desperate than before. He lowers his hands from the angel's head to his upper arms and uses them to guide the pair through the shop and… upstairs...

~~~

Crowley wakes in the morning and for a moment he has forgotten where he is. But the soft cotton sheets don’t feel like his own silk ones. He’s never used floral in decoration before and unless he got very drunk and rewired his house, he’s never had wall lights above his bed… It clicks. He rolls over, and there is his angel –  _ his _ angel – platinum curls framing his face like a halo. Crowley watches the rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest as he snores ever so lightly and starts to let a soft smile form on his face.

“I can feel you watching me, my dear.”

Crowley blushes -  _ blushes.  _ He’s never blushed once in 6000 years on this planet and yet! Aziraphale, eyes still closed to the morning sun breaking through the gap in the curtains, reaches a lazy arm up to find Crowley’s face and pulls him down into the softest of kisses. A kiss so light and gentle, so different from the fevered earnestness of the kisses only seven or eight hours earlier, that something in Crowley’s stomach flutters. 

The angel pulls away and opens his blue eyes to meet Crowley’s golden ones, before closing them again and pulling Crowley into a second kiss, increasing the pressure and parting his lips ever so slightly to catch Crowley’s bottom lip lightly between his teeth. Then he breaks the kiss and pulls away properly, leaving Crowley tasting the air as he struggles to catch up to the fact that Aziraphale is no longer kissing him. 

“I’ll miracle us up some breakfast,” the angel says and props himself up on an elbow to rub his nose against Crowley’s own before climbing out of the bed.

Crowley lets a lazy arm grab after the angel as he walks away - completely naked - and then drops it back to the bed, the rest of his body following suit. He lays on his back, staring at the ceiling, a wide grin splitting his face from ear to ear.

~~~

When Crowley recovers himself enough from the morning’s kisses, he climbs out of bed to find Aziraphale. It surprises him to discover he’s feeling much more modest than the angel and he pulls his shirt and underwear on before padding out of the bedroom to the kitchen. 

He follows his nose. The kitchen is the opposite of Crowley’s own. Where Crowley’s is all black glass and stainless steel, cold and beautiful and never used; Aziraphale’s kitchen is wood panels and scuffed work surfaces. It’s quite large too, considering the size of the rest of the flat. There’s a kitchen island in the centre of the room, breaking the room into a horseshoe shape. At one end of the horseshoe, Aziraphale is standing at the large gas hob, wearing an apron and absolutely nothing else. Crowley cannot fathom why but not a soul on earth (or in heaven or hell for that matter) would ever catch him complaining. 

Aziraphale doesn’t seem to hear Crowley approaching - his focus is entirely on the eggs in the frying pan in his hand - so Crowley uses the opportunity to sneak up behind him. 

He thinks at first that he’ll do something charming, suave even. He envisions wrapping his arms around the angel and kissing his neck. Yet, his brain seems to fall at the first hurdle and instead of raising both arms to envelop Aziraphale, only one arm reaches out and… pinches his bum.

Aziraphale jumps slightly and laughs. He swats Crowley’s hand away with the spatula in his hand. “My dear, if you do that again, I think I shall have to eat your eggs myself. Why are you up? I would have brought these to you in bed.”

Crowley, who has never really cared as much about food (or breakfast in bed) as the angel but cares very deeply about Aziraphale’s bum, pinches him again.

Aziraphale turns to swat at Crowley again but seems to think better of it. He carefully places the spatula on the worktop next to the hob and then grabs hold of the demon’s shirt and kisses him very firmly on the mouth. 

Crowley’s eyes widen at the forcefulness of the usually mild-mannered angel and then relaxes into the kiss, letting his hands find their way around and up Aziraphale’s back to rest on his shoulders. Aziraphale pushes Crowley backwards until they bump up against the island in the middle of the kitchen. The angel presses his whole body against Crowley and Crowley can feel the angel’s stiffness through his thin boxers and the apron. 

Crowley digs his fingers in slightly to Aziraphale’s shoulders and the angel lets out a low moan from the back of his throat. Smiling to himself, Crowley digs his nails in next. Hard.

Aziraphale growls and hoists Crowley up, so that he is now sitting on the island, his face bent down to meet Aziraphale’s, fingernails still dug in firmly to the soft flesh on his shoulders.

Aziraphale, who had previously had his hands on Crowley’s hips, now brings them round to wrestle with the buttons on the demon’s shirt. One button is undone, and then another, but the next is persistent. He grapples with it for some time. Meanwhile, Crowley has scratched his fingernails as far down the angel’s back as he can reach, leaving red lines etched into the creamy skin, marking the angel. When Crowley’s hands reach the neat bow tied at Aziraphale’s waist, he gives it a swift tug and then breaks the kiss briefly to pull the apron off over the angel’s head, letting it drop to the floor. 

Aziraphale growls again, but in annoyance this time. “This button…” 

Crowley understands. “It’s only a shirt.”

So Aziraphale pulls and the shirt is undone through pure force, buttons scattering over the tiled floor of the kitchen. Crowley is already shrugging it off his shoulders but before he can pull his boxers off completely, to join the shirt and apron, Aziraphale has lowered his face to Crowley’s crotch. 

The demon’s yellow eyes roll back slightly as Aziraphale begins to do something with his mouth that no angel has any business doing. Especially not with a demon. 

They continue like this for some time. Aziraphale’s tongue flicks and darts, and occasionally he takes Crowley’s entire length in and in and in. Each time, just as Crowley thinks he’s going to lose himself completely, the angel will resurface and instead give Crowley a few gentle strokes with his hand, before burying his face in between Crowley’s thighs once more. 

Crowley’s hands are everywhere. He can’t reach Aziraphale to return any sort of favour, so he settles for pulling the angel’s hair, scratching his back and shoulders more, gripping his arms. It’s all he can do to not hold Aziraphale’s head down and let the movement of his hips and Aziraphale’s mouth finish him off. 

And then, finally and slowly and yet somehow all of a sudden, the next time Aziraphale lowers his head down and down, Crowley knows he’s not going to be able to hold back any longer.

“Angel,” he says, hoarsely. Aziraphale looks up at him and the sight of the angel’s blue eyes looking up at him like that, with Crowley’s cock in his mouth is all it takes. Crowley lets go with a guttural moan and lets the orgasm wash over him, wave upon wave of pure ecstasy, fingers entwined in platinum curls, hips bucking involuntarily, riding Aziraphale’s mouth until he feels completely empty.

He lays back on the island, panting, hands still in Aziraphale’s hair. After a few moments of recovery, he sits back up and presses his mouth, still open and breathing hard, to Aziraphales own. Aziraphale catches Crowley’s bottom lip in between his teeth and bites down oh so lightly, and Crowley is almost ready to go again. He is desperate to return the favour and is going to suggest so when-

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

The sound rings through the bookshop flat, piercing Crowley’s eardrums. The pair untangle their limbs in a hurry as Aziraphale jumps back, and Crowley becomes aware of a very strange smell in the kitchen.

“What the-” Crowley is bleary eyed and unimpressed at the sudden interruption. 

Aziraphale whirls around to find the source of the noise and realisation dawns on his face. His expression changes completely, from half lidded eyes of lust to open and smiling, and he doubles over in laughter. He turns back to Crowley, holding something blackened and stinking in one hand, the other holding onto his thigh as the tears of laughter stream down his face.

“I think-” he stops to laugh some more, and he waves a hand shut the smoke alarm off. “I think I forgot about the eggs!”

~~~

The pan is ruined. 

After cleaning the rest of the kitchen up (“Please, angel. Let me finish you-” “I’m quite alright Crowley. Really, the moment’s quite gone! Help me find the rest of these buttons, will you!”) Aziraphale sets to work at the task of removing charred eggs from the bottom of the pan. He boils a kettle and leaves the pan to soak in hot water and soap but the eggs persist. 

Eventually (after much consultation with various out-of-date housekeeping guides found on the shelves of the bookshop below), Aziraphale admits defeat and simply throws the pan straight into the black wheelie bin outside.

Crowley, who would not describe himself as a sentimental sort of demon, waits patiently. Soon, Aziraphale finds himself tied up with a customer that shows almost as much persistence as the eggs. 

“I’m off, angel. Plants to tend to, demonic activities to… activity.” He touches Aziraphale’s arm as he walks past and the distracted angel waves an arm in his direction as way of goodbye. 

“I’m sorry, we simply don’t take credit card here, I find the whole concept of money that one can’t see to be simpl- Oh, goodbye Crowley!” 

But the demon has already gone. 

A second customer walks in and Aziraphale resolves to close the shop as soon as he’s got rid of these two.

“Mr. Fell, you’ll never believe what I saw! Some lanky fellow! Rifling through your rubbish!”

“Rifling through my-” Aziraphale gives in, distracted, to the first customer. “Look, just take the book and go. No! No! Pay me in cash another day. Now get  _ out _ !” He turns back to the newcomer, as the first customer rushes out of the shop, looking equal parts pleased at having won the book and flustered at being thrown out of a bookshop. “Rifling through my rubbish? What on earth are you talking about?”

“Exactly what I say! Lanky fellow. Head and shoulders right down in your black wheelie bin, Mr. Fell. Throwing all sorts on to the street. Nearly got me in the face, but I ducked. Anyway, he wasn’t doing it for very long. Got what he wanted, though, and off he speeds in some big fancy car.”

“Big fancy… What was it he took?” Aziraphale feels the smile forming on his face. He suspects he can guess what Crowley, the nostalgic old demon, had retrieved from the bottom of his bin.

“Well. It looked like a like a frying pan. All black and charred, but… definitely a frying pan!”


End file.
